Jewel of the Crown
by Tsuki no kimi
Summary: England's East India Company has seized control of India, but she's not going without a fight. Love can complicate the matter, however. EnglandxOC!India, based off an RP, collab with KumaKichii.
1. First Meeting

**Tsuki no kimi: This is Kimi, if it wasn't obvious from the giant letters spelling out TSUKI NO KIMI at the beginning here. Durhur. _Jewel of the Crown _is actually an RP that I did with mah wife, KumaKichii, and I... like how it turned out? Well, England does get OOC n'stuff which is a li'l annoying but for the most part, he was OK. British slang... writing out British slang was FUN ;; 33. Okay, now I have to let Kichii talk. **

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KumaKichii: Ahh. I enjoyed writing India. Heh. Maybe it's because I get into playing serious-ish characters n'shnit. Uh… If anyone was wondering and/or cares, this is RimaxNagi. I changed my penname. For a lot of reason

**—that doesn't matter right now. ANYWAY. Yes I feel like Kimi and I did a good job on this… immensely long… THING.**

**Tsuki no kimi: Hee, you're so cute. I hope your fans don't kill us. We're too sexy to die. **

**KumaKichii: Any killing of Kimi or myself is not tolerated. Thank you. -shot- Enjoy the immensely long THING.**

* * *

England appraised the girl in front of him, arching a thick eyebrow at the rather sullen-looking adolescent in front of him. So this was what he had fought so hard to get with his ever-powerful Honourable (With a U, Alfred!) East India Company? He hadn't learned much about her, yet; only her name and a quick once-over of her history that was now blurring together in the Englishman's mind with all his other colony's stories. One thing he was sure about; her history would certainly get more interesting with a powerful nation like the British Empire involved. Leaning back in his armchair with a soft _creak_, he pushed a piece of paper towards her with two pale fingers. "Sign, please," were the only words that escaped through his lips. He just wanted to get it over with; the rich and powerful country signed over to him quickly and silently before anyone, namely that accursed frog, could snatch her away.

Staring silently at the piece of paper as if it had insulted her, the coffee-skinned girl made no move whatsoever to pick up the pen that would, inevitably, seal her fate. Her dark gaze rose from the sheet of paper to glare loathingly at the blond who was appraising her carefully. India was almost positive that the anger radiating off of her in waves was nearly tangible, though she had no intention of expressing it.

Letting out a tiny sigh, he continued staring expectantly at the soon-to-be colony as she simply started dumbly at the paper. Lord God Almighty, he was almost a little frightened of the Oriental nation now; she was staring hard enough to burn a hole through the paper! Shuddering, he turned his head away and focused on a vibrant tapestry hanging on the wall instead. "Don't you know how to write?" he scoffed quietly. Biting back the retort that threatened to escape, she continued to glare at the side of his head. Remaining unresponsive, she picked up the pen, but made no move to sign her name. Instead, she stared numbly at it while twirling it silently in her hand. Holding off on signing the paper was, in a way, a last act of defiance against the man that was, to be blunt, forcing her into an agreement that she hadn't _agreed_ on to begin with.

England would grudgingly give her this; she was very good at dawdling. Tapping his fingernails on the teak wood of the desk, he took several deep breaths and told himself not to yell at her. After all, she was a _lady_—albeit a very uncivilized one that should be converted to the Holy Faith – and he was an _ENGLISH GENTLEMEN_. It was harder than it sounded; the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner was killing his eardrums, and it was all he could do not to stand up and scream at her to just _sign the damn paper already_.

No, no; he would not rush her; his boss had especially said that we had to keep the nation complacent and happy to an extent. All the better to trade with, after all.

He lost to temptation.

Quietly straightening up, he said coldly, "Well, hurry up, woman."

The coffee-skinned girl's penetrating eyes were immediately on him, and shooting him the scariest glare she hoped he'd ever seen. The pure loathing in her stare was unmistakable, but her voice portrayed absolutely no emotion as she murmured, "I have a name. Aren't you supposed to be a gentleman?" It was the first time she'd spoken since she'd entered the room, and she thought her own voice sounded loud in comparison to the silence.

Silence.

The clock ticked louder.

"I-I am a gentlemen! Don't misunderstand! I'm certainly more civilized than you!" England stammered a few completely unrelated statements in succession, pulling at his stiff collar agitatedly. Standing up, the chair making no noise against the Persian rug, he glared. "Now, sign the paper. Or I have guards waiting outside that will help convince you." Take that; the insolent girl would feel the wrath of Britannia.

Flicking her long, black hair over her shoulder, India gripped the pen hard in her dark-coloured fist while glaring in a rather intimidating way at the blonde. She glanced at the piece of paper, then pulled it a bit closer to her, sighing in defeat. "_Na chhot, na chooche, nakhre noor jahan ke..._" she muttered darkly to herself, and began to sign her name. In her frustration, she pressed too hard on the document and succeeded in tearing it slightly.

England watched with stony jaded eyes as she twirled the pen incessantly between her long, darkly tanned fingers before reluctantly putting the quill end to paper and writing, muttering obscenities in her native language under her breath. At least, he assumed they were obscenities; he couldn't speak Hindu or Sanskrit or whatever the bloody hell they spoke down here. That's what the translators were for, wasn't it? Besides, India's boss managed to stumble along perfectly fine in rough English.

Soon she'd be his. The thought was delightful. Pepper, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg... not to mention rice and grains. This coupled with the sugar of that boy he stole from Portugal, and the lumber of what's-his-face... it was going to make him rich.

England was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of paper tearing – for one terrible minute, he thought that she had torn the form in two – but she was simply so furious that the metal end of the pen was tearing through the paper. "Be careful!" he said sharply, glaring at her, and her only response was to mutter her native... mutterings, even more pronounced. Getting genuinely irritated now, he barked, "And watch your language!"

The paper hadn't torn too much—just a small tear along the line upon which she was supposed to sign her name. She was a bit relieved, but she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sheer annoyance at the bushy-eyebrowed pansy who was barking at her. He was starting to sound like a small, angry dog.

How the hell did he even know what she was saying? He didn't. And it annoyed her that the blonde fool was making assumptions. Before she could stop herself, her head snapped up and she glared daggers at him from her seat in the uncomfortable chair.

"_Chup kar, hijra haraami_!" She barked in her native tongue. She knew that he could only be mildly sure that she was insulting him. But the hatred in her eyes, coupled with the harsh way with which she'd spoken, left no room to doubt it.

"You-!" He stood straight up, collar standing up at a mildly odd angle from him pulling at it. "From now on, you will speak the Queen's English and nothing better. Do you understand me? One word of that heathen language of yours and you," he lowered his voice to little above a whisper, cheeks flushed and panting heavily, "Will be very sorry."

Slowly falling back into his seat, he fixed the Union of India with a frosty stare. "Now, finish signing the bloody paper." God, he needed some fucking booze.

Stunned at his sudden outburst, her hand faltered and the pen fell to the floor, hardly making a sound as it impacted with the rug. Although she knew it was in her best interest to retrieve it immediately and just do what the bastard wanted, the part of her that was loyal to her own country refused to let her do so.

Furthermore, she was a human being. Or to him, she was a dog that could be kicked and punished if it didn't obey its orders. She clenched her darkly-tanned fist, anger rising inside her. She felt tears sting her eyes; she would not cry. She refused to cry. She would show absolutely no weakness whatsoever to this person who had decided that she was only something of monetary value with no human life.

She wanted to scream at him, as he had done to her. To ask him how, in what way, was his country so much greater than her own. Oh, how she wanted to. How she wanted to slap him—how satisfying it would be. But she didn't. She wouldn't. Instead, she clenched her teeth. She let her dark bangs cover her eyes as she bent to pick up the pen. She did not meet his gaze.

England was used to colonies, and the furious struggle and hate they held for him. He was used to it – but that didn't mean it didn't shock him when he could feel it radiate off the oriental in powerful waves. It almost exhilarated him; it was probably the reason he let the elegant, self-satisfied smile of a noble grace his features.

Leaning forward to that his lips almost brushed the variety of earrings she wore, he breathed, "I'm glad you're finally shutting the hell up and obeying your sovereign country, _Miss Advani_." Pulling back, he added, "And if I were you, I'd keep signing those papers. There are several more underneath."

Her eyes still hidden by her thick, coal-black hair, India finished signing the first form. When the blonde across from her informed her that there were more underneath, she nodded slowly. "Ha," she acknowledged in Hindi, then her eyes widened upon remembering his earlier threat of the consequences that using her native tongue would bring. Not knowing what to anticipate, she flinched and shut her eyes, expecting to be struck.

England felt utterly confused, mistaking the 'ha' for a sarcastic laugh, but from the way her body suddenly convulsed and her eyes squeezed shut, she was expecting to be hit. He had to blink a couple times to finally understand that she had spoken some kind of assent in her own language; but the reaction? He dimly remembered his boss lecturing him on her history, saying something about several of the Middle-East section invading her a great deal. That nutter in the mask, Turkey, not to mention Persia and god-knows-who-else. With this in mind, England reluctantly ignored the outburst. "Nearly done?"

Relieved that he, at the moment, had no plans to strike her, she gave a small nod, afraid to speak for fear of lapsing back into her own language. She scribbled her name quickly on the remaining forms and pushed them toward him, staring down at her lap.

He took the form off the table, putting them into his briefcase carefully so as not to wrinkle them. He did need to take them back to the others, after all; and perhaps he would wave them in that wine freak's face just for the fun of it. "_Ha, ha, you frog! I got the colony! Now all you have is a little crappy island called Pondicherry! What kind of screwed up name is that?"_

Smirking, he moved his emerald eyes over to where the girl – not the girl, _India_, his colony – was sitting, looking rather resentful. "Thank you – though it took you long enough," he sniffed distastefully. "Now, before we go over some things - _WHERE IS MY TEA._"

The coffee-skinned girl stared at him blankly and shrugged. She had no idea what he was talking about, to be honest. And she was damned if he was going to treat her like a slave and force her to do anything he wanted.

It didn't take a genius to realize that India had no idea what he was talking about; sighing, he stood up. "Stupid Yao," he muttered to himself. "All bent out of shape about his tea, with his bloody rebellions – " Standing up, he gestured frantically to one of the guards outside, who was quickly dispatched and sent running. The said guard, quite frankly, had no idea what the short little five-foot-nine fiend with the monstrous eyebrows even _was_ to order him around; possibly some kind of small-time military general? Either way, he did what the island nation asked. Damn straight. Happy with a porcelain cup in front of him, he sipped daintily (Not girly! Daintily!) and eyed his new colony appreciatively. "Now, you know what is expected of you, correct?"

Still not meeting the blonde's gaze, India twirled a strand of coal-black hair around her darkly-tanned fingers. She was silent for several moments, not really sure if he'd been asking a rhetorical question—_should_ she know what was expected of her? She didn't. "Enlighten me."

"Still rather rude, but that'll be solved in time. Once you realize that Britannia has the whole world in their fist, you'll treat me differently." Rolling his eyes, he laid his pale hands on the table as a kind of point; they were pale on the outside, but clearly calloused on the palms. "You see this, India? This is from working out on the fields, through famine and drought, since before Rome. I've worked hard to build this empire, and you're not taking it away from me." He carefully let the sleeves of his frock-coat fall over his hands. "There will be no rebelling; you will be wasting your time. I see that look in your eyes; you're dying to slap me, aren't you? But you won't dare, not to the British Empire whom the sun never sets on. Understand?"

Clenching her darkened fists, India bit down on her lip hard enough that she thought it may bleed. So far, he'd been wrong in everything he'd done—in everything he said. But this time, for the first time, he was a hundred percent correct: she WAS dying to slap him. Or rather, ninety-nine percent correct. He'd said that she wouldn't dare lay a hand on him.

This was the point at which he had made his mistake. There had to be a line somewhere—and there was. A line that India had unconsciously laid down. And this blonde bastard had just crossed it. There would be consequences for this, she knew. She didn't care. Sometimes, the satisfaction of an action far outweighed the consequences.

Rising to her feet swiftly, she raised her hand and slapped him across the face in a quick, whiplike movement. The resulting sound was a sharp _crack_ unlike anything she'd heard before. She should slap people more often.

The island nation's eyes widened as he felt a hand strike his face; it took several long, tense moments for England to realize that she had – had _slapped_ him. He slowly opened his mouth, only to have his usual colourful vocabulary fail him. Finally, he just said in a low voice, "Did you just – hit me?"

The dark-skinned girl's eyes suddenly widened at her own actions. _Had_ she hit him? The answer, obviously, was yes. She had. To an extent, she was glad she'd done it. However, she'd been too blinded by her own fury to really think about what she was going to do—but someone didn't really _think_ about slapping a person before they did it, did they? At this point, she wished that she had.

She'd known that there would be consequences, but she didn't know what they would be. And by the look on the dominant country's face, they were going to be severe. Lowering her hand, she bowed her head, waiting for him to condemn her.

Finding his voice again, he stood up so abruptly that the chair was knocked over and, with a loud clatter, fell to the floor. Fuming, he closed the distance between them, forcing India's chin up with a pale hand; Ivory against a pale honey-brown. "Look at me," he snarled, "Look. At. Me. I am your sovereign, and you do. Not. Slap. Me." With every word that escaped past his lips, he dealt another blow to her face. "Do you understand?" Breathing hard, he took a step back. On the outside, he was as coolly indifferent as ever; on the inside, he was reeling from horror. The last time he had lost his temper like that — images flashed before his mind's eye. Documents, arguments, stars and stripes, gunpowder, cold blue eyes staring hatefully at him over the edge of a bayonet. He tried to repress a shudder.

India sank to the floor, her eyes wide and staring at nothing. Her darkened skin was taking on a reddish tint, though it wouldn't turn the scarlet that his fair flesh had when she'd struck him. Granted, he'd hit her one hell of a hot harder than she'd dared to slap him—and more than once.

The strong-spirited girl now stared at the rug, tears threatening to spill down her burning, stinging cheeks in a torrent; thus far, she'd refused to let herself cry. But now, she wasn't sure she could maintain that resolve.

She lifted her head to stare at him from the floor, trying to show that she still had the dignity she was fighting to hard to hold onto. She tried to show the hate she expressed for him in her eyes. But she was sure that the only thing he could see was the eyes of a frightened child on the verge of tears. The eyes of a dog whilst being abused by its master. She was aware that he knew he'd won. He knew she couldn't fight back. The pitiful look in her eyes that she tried to hide made her feel weak and unable to defend herself. But she couldn't do anything about it.

He knew from the minute she sank to the floor, that he had won. He had not only legally, but physically conquered the fierce nation. Almost self-possessed, he started walking resolutely and slowly towards the fallen nation, until his shins were only about a foot apart from her forehead. "Have you given up yet, India?" he breathed softly. "Have you finally realized the power of the British Empire?"

She would not show weakness. She couldn't. She refused to acknowledge his presence—refused to let him know that he had, indeed, beaten her. Her spirit had been crushed; there was nothing left to fight for. But her stubborn mind refused to let her give up. However, her mind couldn't control her body's involuntary actions. Even though she willed herself not to be weak, not to cry, tiny, hot tears slid down her still-stinging cheeks and fell silently to the rug. He had won.

The nation grinned; the wicked leer of a conqueror, the side he had only dared to show South Africa and Brazil and now _her_. In a split-second, he had swung one leg over her waist and pushed her into the floor; after so many conquests, he had learned to make quick work of it. He almost chastised himself for being so careful as he pushed her; but when it came down to it, even if she was a pagan, she was a woman first, he thought resentfully. Letting a hand trail down her side, he murmured, "is this your first time?" – in case she hadn't really guessed what was happening by now.

The dark-skinned girl's eyes widened. This bipolar sonofabitch had just, to be blunt, beaten her, and now he was attempting rape? What kind of whore did he take her for? She wasn't about to be used like some kind of toy—she was damned if he was going to strip her of her last ounce of dignity... Or for that matter, her clothes.

"_Randhwa!_" she snarled, and taking advantage of his position, she recoiled her leg, her knee striking home with as much force she could muster. She'd like to see him try anything now.

He let out a gasp of pain as she kneed him _right there_. Oh bloody _FUCK_, she had definitely put a serious dent in Big Ben now; she— she destroyed a national monument! Unforgivable!

Grimacing, he gave her a glare that would usually send Brazil running for the sugarcane fields. "You—you—" he sputtered, before wincing at the tingle that shot through his spine as he tried to stand up. God, had he actually gotten turned _on_ by the other nation for a brief moment – no, second, millisecond – there? No, no, no, no, she was a colony; it was WRONG and UNPROFESSIONAL. Shit. Gnawing on his lip furiously, he got up, more slowly this time. "If you really don't want it that much, I suppose I can let you go today," he said, trying for a lofty tone. "But it _will_ happen someday. After all, you belong to me; you have nowhere else to go."

She gave him the most intimidating glare she could, resisting the urge to burst into wild laughter. "Next time, I'll cut it off. Don't fuck with me. I mean that literally."

_Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't even dream of fucking with you now_, England thought sarcastically, almost groaning to himself at the pun. Looks like his British Comedy wasn't in tip-top shape today after _that_ escapade. Dusting off his pants irritably, he awkwardly took his hat from the hatstand in the corner, and put it on his head distractedly. "I really wouldn't put it past a barbarian like you," he said coldly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. We still have to discuss more trade routes. Eight-thirty AM sharp, please. A lady must be punctual, and I'm determined to turn you into one, whatever your opinion." He silently opened the door and left, reflecting on the horrible afternoon.


	2. Second Meeting

The next time they met, it was the next day in one of his East India Company's offices. England paced the room irritably, trying to repress the deep growl threatening to escape out of his throat. It was eight- _eight-thirty-four_. Un-fuckin'-believable! She'd do anything to rebel, he reflected with a groan, and it was annoying. Annoying, and a little endearing that she'd try this hard – nobody had ever gone out of their way this much to lash back against him before. She was so naïve; resistance was futile.

Running as quickly as her legs would allow, India finally reached her destination and shoved open the door, somewhat irritably. She's woken up late, and she'd practically committed suicide trying to meet the punctuality requirement the idiot had set. Sadly, she hadn't. He looked... Pissed.

"India," England said coldly, regarding her sternly. "How kind of you to join us." Not waiting for her reply, he gestured to the chair to the right of him – it was her privilege, now, not like she'd appreciate it. "We have lots to discuss."

Returning his cold stare, she gave a simple nod and sat down in the rather uncomfortable chair. Maybe he'd care to _discuss_ why the hell he'd turned into a near-rapist yesterday and pinned her to the floor. She had no idea why the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had some sort of advantage-as far as lust-over him satisfied her to no end.

He rolled his eyes as she tried to outstare him; it had been a favourite game of Seychelles to play, too. Why did he keep comparing India to his other colonies, anyway...? he grumbled to himself. It was annoying; perhaps he was just trying to keep all his emotions out of their relationship, however much they seemed to be aching to just come between him and this girl. He knew what happened when you got emotionally attached to a colony; oh, he knew _far too well_. Tapping his pen against the desk, he shot India a careless glance. "Is there anything you need to bring up before we begin?"

Fixing him with an even colder stare, she flicked her thick black hair behind her in an irritated fashion. Hell yes, there was plenty she'd like to bring up. Why the hell was he so set on forcing her to, in any sense, be his slave? But she'd settle for this: "What the hell was that yesterday?" Her tone was brittle and unforgiving. "I mean, I know you're after the goods of my country, but..."

He raised his large eyebrows in disbelief. "You were really so bothered by that?" he said, incredulously. "You should learn more about what it means to be a nation." He paused, trying to think of how to phrase this. How had he explained it to everybody else...? Oh, now he remembered. France. Inwardly groaning at the mental scarring he had inflicted upon his adopted children, he cleared his throat. "Physical... er, relations, strengthen ties. Allies will do it to keep exchange strong, and the same goes for colonies." He almost rolled his eyes again at how he was phrasing it. "What happened back there would have been strictly business; there are no feelings in the matter whatsoever." He hoped, anyway.

She had sat there, emotionless through his entire spiel... Except for the last part. She had absolutely no clue, whatsoever, why she flinched. But she did. He body had acted without her consent to do so, and she had flinched. Why? She couldn't answer that.

But she had a strong feeling that it was for the same reason that she now felt... Sad, somehow. Rejected. It was ridiculous, she knew. He had hit her, abused her mentally, verbally, and physically. She hated him. So why did it feel like now, he was rejecting her? Rejecting her for _what_ exactly?

_Strictly business... There are no feelings in the matter whatsoever... _She knew it was true, but why did it hurt to hear him say it? She turned her head away—she didn't want him to see the—remarkably—crestfallen look that she was almost positive lingered in her eyes. It was there. But she didn't, under any circumstances whatsoever, understand it.

India looked like she'd been slapped, before she quickly turned her head away. He started; had she really been offended that much by his _no feelings_ comment? Perhaps she had felt hurt because she thought England truly cared—before he could complete the thought, he dismissed it sharply. Perhaps emotional love was simply important to her. He resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands; he _really_ didn't understand women. "Don't act so damn snubbed; loveless sex happens all the time," he said bluntly. Awkwardly shuffling his papers, he cautiously coughed. "Any more on this subject?"

His words were a sort of confirmation—he _had_ seen her obvious disappointment at her earlier comment, even though she'd tried to hide it. And he'd dismissed it as if it was nothing. To her, it was a way of showing that he'd meant what he'd said before. No feelings, no emotions... She'd wondered a few times the night before if maybe, under his cold stares and unwelcoming exterior, a human heart may be waiting to show.

But he'd made it perfectly clear that, to him, she was nothing more than something of monetary value that he didn't care about in the least. Hell, she was making herself want to cry just thinking these things, but it wasn't something she could help. He'd made her feel like a dog before. But now, "dog" may as well have been a compliment compared to the way she felt.

_Any more on this subject? _She managed to shake her head, not trusting herself to speak because of the lump that, unreasonably, had risen in her throat. She closed her eyes—that was a mistake. The tears had collected in her eyes, and the action of closing them was just enough to send one of the little traitors sliding down her honey-brown cheek. She didn't notice.

He was about to pass her a folder, start explaining negotiations about trade – he would need more pepper this year, and needed to work something out about that – when he saw a drop of water fall onto the wood. He was about to get up and demand who had left the roof leaking – this table was made of _mahogany_, dammit – when he noticed that it had, in fact, fallen from a dark ebony eye directly across from him. He stared in shock; strong, stubborn, bastardly India was _crying_? Him not understanding women was now the understatement of the year, he thought miserably.

"H-Hey! Stop that!" he tried to say, but it came out more as a kind of strangled yelp. "Fuck," he finally managed to get out, articulate and intact. Biting down on his lip even more fiercely now, he let a hand flutter around the air before finally remembering himself and quickly pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wordlessly shoving it at her.

India stared at him for a few silent seconds, not really sure why he'd suddenly thrust a handkerchief her way. Several heartbeats later, she realized that a single traitor tear had indeed made its way down her cheek and onto the table. Not thinking about anything else, she brushed it from the mahogany surface with her darkly-coloured hand.

Hesitantly, she took the handkerchief from him. As she did so, her hand bumped his—a brief contact between his pale flesh and her own, honey-brown skin. Though calloused on the palms, as he's showed her before, his hands, overall, had a gentle appearance. They were warm as well, she noted.

Raising the handkerchief to dab carefully at her eye, she fixed him with a stare that wasn't as cold as before, though it wasn't friendly in the least. "Thank you," she said softly, but curtly. "And," she added, noticing the look on his face that made it clear that he'd known she was _crying_.

She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had, in any way, stirred a kind of reaction within her. No emotions, no feelings. Wasn't that what he had said? "I wasn't crying." She gave him a look that left to room to be argued with. "Something, probably dust, got in my eye."

She had no idea whether or not he believed her. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. She wasn't about to ask, and she couldn't tell just by looking at him. She folded the handkerchief neatly and placed it on the polished surface of the table, not meeting his eyes.

He couldn't help but blush like a daft fool when their hands brushed; really, he was acting like an idiot schoolboy which he ultimately was _not_. He gave a proud nod when she murmured a word of thanks, almost splitting at the seams with pride. Progress! She was showing a real sign of manners-! This pride quickly faded at her next statement.

"_Something, probably dust, got in my eye."_

Bristling, he gave her an affronted look. "A-are you suggesting that I have dust in my house? I'll have you know that I keep my quarters _VERY CLEAN_!" he barked. Slumping down lower into his chair, he took the handkerchief back off the table and gave her an extremely offended look; not angry, just mildly slighted.

She couldn't help but be amused at his sudden outburst. He certainly had a lot of pride, but how easy it was to wound! A simple comment about a speck of dust had gotten him all flustered. She found it to be—though the mere thought was enough to make her question her own sanity—cute, to say the least.

"I wasn't implying that your house was dusty," she assured him. The sadness that had lingered in her eyes a moment before had been replaced with humour. "Even if one's house if spotless, dust may still linger in the air. There's nothing we can really do about it. Tricky little pests." She let out a tiny laugh. How strange, to be laughing in the presence of this man.

His eye twitched at her lighthearted tone; how the hell was he supposed to know about dust? He did his very best to avoid dust or rubbish of any kind; dirty was bad. Or so his mind told him. And now she was laughing, oh bugger. Something was either severely wrong with him for taking her on, or she was just soft in the head. Hunching up his shoulders, he pulled out the quill pen again. "So you don't pay a mind to dirt? You clearly must be bloody bonkers." The British slang slipped out before he could stop it, and he winced at the cockney accent.

This time, she couldn't help but let a little giggle slip past her lips, though she tried to stifle it. Where in the world did these people come up with their insults? "No, I don't like dirt and dust either," she retorted, still holding back laughter. "But you can't really rid the earth of it, either, no matter how hard you try. Isn't that true?"

He raised an eyebrow again off reflex. He really needed to stop doing that; Francis said it made him look like a quizzical chipmunk. Hastily lowering them again, he balanced his chin on one hand. "Yes, but you can build clean streets on top of them. I haven't been on real ground for years now, thank God for the Industrial Revolution." Casually glancing back at India, he added, "That will eventually happen here, as well."

His comment destroyed her semi-good mood completely, but she didn't say anything. India knew that, even though it pissed her off, he was right. There was nothing she could do about it, either. Instead, she gave him a strange look. "Has anyone ever told you that when you raise your eyebrows like that, you look uncannily like a quizzical chipmunk?"

His mouth dropped open in horror, the girl across from him confirming his worst fears. "Excuse me? You do not talk that way to your mother country! Really, how ungrateful!" Grumbling, he took another drink of tea. "Manners. That's the first order of business, manners. And then we'll discuss trade." He took an intimidating step forward.

India couldn't help but notice that when he was angry, his voice shot up an octave higher than normal. For some reason, she found this extremely funny, and had to suppress the urge to burst into a fit of giggles. "Yes, mother dearest," she acknowledged, though she knew it wasn't a good idea to taunt him when he was in this state. But he _had_ said that he was her "mother country," hadn't he?

Unfortunately, this didn't seem to faze her at all; on the contrary, she seemed to be on the verge of giggling. His frown deepened as he put a hand on his slim waist. "First of all, don't sit on your hands like that! Put them daintily in your lap, like a _lady_. While we're at it, you should stop wearing those silly togas; we'll ship you in some nice dresses from England." What he didn't add, is that it was a waste for her to be hiding her figure like that; but he thought it best to leave that part out so that he didn't come off as lecherous.

Deciding that, for now, it was safe enough to toy with him a little more, she put her hands behind her head and leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs and closing her eyes as if relaxing on a warm day. "How's this?" she asked lazily, resisting the urge to open one ebony eye to see his reaction.

The way she had her arms raised, her chest was in plain view, only covered by the thin clothing she wore because of the intense heat of the outdoors. Though she wasn't going to be egotistic about it, she thought she had a pretty nice figure. Her chest, though not excessively large like one of the other countries she had seen, was fully developed and quite decent in size.

She wondered what that blonde fool was thinking because, since she'd adjusted her position, he had fallen silent.

"I—" the island nation started, feeling the blood rise to his face; he was suddenly unnaturally conscious of the fact that he hadn't gotten laid in a while. He quickly brushed the thought away, panicked. _Wrong. Wrong, wrong._ Tossing his blond hair out of his eyes, he tried to give her a disapproving look through his furious blush. "Stop that! You look like a – a _tart!_"

She had, to be honest, found it rather cute that he'd begun to blush. Actually, that was an understatement; she found it hilariously adorable. She was starting to wonder if she should see a doctor—she should _not_, under any circumstances, find this man to be cute. Not in the least. And as soon as the next few words escaped his lips, she no longer had a problem with that. _You look like a—a tart!_

Granted, she didn't necessarily know what he meant by that—the odd slang that these British people used was beyond her. However, she knew for a fact that she'd been insulted. And considering the circumstances, she was pretty sure she knew what he'd said.

Rising to her feet swiftly, she shot him a glare that redefined the phrase "if looks could kill." Tossing her hair back indignantly, she fixed her ebony eyes on him and asked coldly, "Did you just call me a slut?"

He took a step back, glaring back just as strongly. "Yes, yes I did. You shouldn't flaunt your- your body like that!" he exclaimed hotly, turning around and straightening his four-in-hand necktie, hunching his shoulders up. "Don't get all cross just because I told you the truth. You should learn some modesty." _Or get the hell over here and fuck me. Whichever one you prefer. Because really, I'm not too picky about either – ARGH, SHUT UP._

Irritated, offended, and just plain pissed off, India had to resist the urge to backhand him right then and there. It was difficult, but she remembered too well what had happened the last time she'd dared touch him.

She usually didn't let loose with her emotions very often—but she'd had all she could take from this British _haraami_. No, she wouldn't physically harm him. But words could be just as painful when chosen carefully.

Tears were beginning to collect in her eyes—before she'd been forced into being a colony for this bastard, that hadn't happened _nearly_ as frequently. She couldn't tell whether she was about to cry because she was offended, angry, or sad that he didn't seem to care whether he upset her or not. He clearly didn't, so she wasn't sure why she still got so easily distressed over it.

"Have you ever stopped to think," she said quietly—sometimes, staying calm could be even scarier than yelling. "That just maybe, if you treated your colonies a little better, they wouldn't resist so much? Think about it. I hit you once—I was punished. But if you were in my position, wouldn't you have tried to fight back? Would you have sat there and taken the abuse? Your pride wouldn't let you."

With every word, more tears collected in her eyes. His back was to her, so she brushed them away. "Imagine what it's like to have all dignity and pride stripped from you. To be used again and again, with your aggressor denying the very fact that you are human, with a life, feelings, emotions... Maybe if you took into account what you were doing, and how your colonies felt about it..."

India paused for a second, making sure that there were no lingering traces of salt water resting on her honey-brown cheeks. "Then maybe everyone wouldn't _resent_ you so much."

_Guns, rockets, soldiers in blue – _"You used to be so big-"

England turned around slowly, eyes cold. "You've heard about who broke away, didn't you?" He gave a humourless laugh. "I would prefer if you didn't bring that up again. That boy... he was bent on independence and I gave him far too much leeway. I will never make that mistake again." His voice cracked at the very end, and he quickly dropped any emotion out of his speech. "Wake up from your little pacifist dream, India. We're not human; we're nations. Our very path is cursed. We're doomed to do kill and torture each other, because, isn't that the very nature of the humans who govern us?" The United Kingdom gave a short, humourless laugh. "Since the beginning of time, there has been fighting. There have been victories and losses, and it has always been the job of the loser to bend to the victor's will." As he had spoken, he had moved closer and closer to his little colony; now they were quite frightfully close. "You are the loser, India. You failed to protect your nation from our trading forces, so I conquered you. I am more than a victorious human; I am a victorious _nation_. It is the victor's privilege to do whatever the hell... they want... without..." before he could finish his speech, he felt himself sinking to the floor at his eastern colony's feet and burying his face in his hands. Who was he kidding? He was a ruthless tyrant, and he had inflicted pain on countless countries. It was the way it had gone since he was a child and on the receiving end of knife blows; now he had risen to the top and was simply unwilling to show sympathy for others in the same position. "Just go," he muttered, muffled through his fingers.

India was silent for several moments, staring in complete shock at the nation that had sank to his knees and was now sitting motionless on the rug, his face buried in his fair hands. She bit her lip—she'd had not the slightest idea that her words would affect him so strongly; maybe they hadn't. Maybe he was just breaking down now due to the many years of this—maybe the suffering he'd caused others, caused her, was finally taking its toll on him. _Just go_, the two muffled words slipped through his fingers—the misery they contained was nearly tangible. Go? Go where? He'd said this to her before—she had nowhere _to_ go.

He was right in front of her; she sat down in the chair so that she wasn't so much taller than he in the position he remained frozen in. Reaching out a hand, she rested it gently on his shoulder, her darkly-tanned skin contrasting with his pale neck. She said nothing, but she didn't move.

He inhaled sharply as he felt the scrape of a chair and the warmth of a dark hand on his shoulder; he tried to reprimand her, repeat his order, even attempt to explain what a sad wreck he was and how his rule was going to be short-lived; but all that came out was a childish, muffled cry comprised of several unrelated words. He flinched again at how _close_ her fingers were to his neck; couldn't she feel the pulse beating rapidly through it? To him, it sounded as if it was amplified and could be heard throughout the whole room.

"Why?" It was soft, but at least it came out unscarred by sobs. That would really make him lose face in front of her – as if he hadn't already. "Why do you even bother...?" he trailed off, letting his head roll into her lap, nose pressing up against exotic fabric that was comforting in its own right. He must be going insane. He was finally cracking, like Russia, like China had for a while, from such a long and painful existence.

She resisted letting out a little squeak of surprise when he let his head fall into her lap, looking absolutely miserable. _Why do you even bother...?_Good question. Why did she? This was the man that had beaten her, dominated her, and made her feel as though she were absolutely worthless. So why... in the hell... was she _comforting_ him?

She had absolutely no idea. She should, by all means, shove him backward and storm out of the room. But she didn't. She _couldn't_, and she knew that. Even after the torturous hell that this very man had put her through, she couldn't abandon him. She couldn't leave him in the miserable state he was in now.

_Why the hell not?_ Well, she just couldn't. The miserable child that had his head rested in her lap didn't deserve to be left alone to face himself. Okay, well, maybe he did. But she wasn't going to be the one to leave him.

Instead, she rested a honey-brown hand on his head and began to comfortingly stroke her fingers through his blonde hair. She felt, in a way, motherly. She knew that this was an entirely stupid thought. But to an extent, it was a good feeling.

He started when he felt something brush his hair;it took several moments for him to realize that she was _petting_ his head, stroking it like he remembered Scotland doing to him when he was much younger. Tears pricked his eyes again – fuck, no, don't cry. He was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and he _didn't cry_. Squirming a little as her fingers brushed a particularly sensitive part of his head, he slowly looked up and into her face. It must have looked pathetic to anyone watching; he was kneeling at the feet, head in her lap, looking up at her with a face near worship. He didn't worship her, he thought disgruntledly, he just – how did he feel? This was not somebody he could dominate without repercussion, but they still were not equals and she still had to submit to him although, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to force her. Who was this girl, who held herself with such pride and yet could find it in herself to forgive him after he stole away her country and her market? In the end, he just mumbled one word.

"Sorry."

_Sorry..._Just one word. One, simple, word that could be sincere, or insincere. She didn't know how to react in the slightest. In fact, she thought that she might've been going a little—ok, a lot—insane. England was not sitting at her feet, with his head in her lap. She was not stroking his hair like a mother trying to comfort her child who'd just woken from a nightmare.

And England had not, _not_ just apologized to her. Except that he had. He was looking up at her with his jade eyes—he somewhat reminded her of a puppy that had been abandoned at the pound. _Please don't leave me here to die—I'm sorry I chewed up your new shoes!_

She still, however, didn't know how to react. She gave a small nod, and then noticed that those huge, green eyes were full of unshed tears. What was it that she'd always been told when caught on the verge of crying? The advice that she'd never, ever followed? She smiled a little upon remembering it, then looked down at him. "Just cry."

He had to gape at her for a minute – or resist the urge to call her _bràithair__ Alba_ – but he quickly recovered, blinking violently and jumping up, taking several steps back and still shaking his head so that his fringe (No, not fucking bangs!) flopped slightly. "I can't cry, dammit! In case you haven't noticed, I'm a fucking _man_!"

As soon as he finished the sentence, he wanted to slap himself – a traitorous tear had fallen from his eye and landed on the Chinese rug. He could practically hear Yao screaming, "_Aiyaaahh! Not on the rug, aru!"_ but he brushed the voice from his mind and just wiped his eye on his sleeve angrily. "I- I'm totally wasted right now," he said bluntly. It didn't seem plausible, but perhaps India was dafter than she looked.

India couldn't help but let a tiny smile play on her honey-brown lips. England was just as stubborn as she was—what did that say about her? Her sharp eyes didn't miss the tear that fell to the rug, as well as the many that still remained unshed, but were on the verge of spilling over.

"Just because you're a man, you can't cry?" she asked innocently, and her tone showed no sign that she was teasing him or trying to make him feel pathetic—she was sure he already felt pathetic enough. "That isn't true."

He hesitantly took a step closer again, avoiding her eyes. "Crying is… it's…" There was an awkward pause, before he blurted out, "It's… _UNMANLY_!" before wincing at himself and letting his shoulders crawl up to his ears. Staring out the window at the sunshine through the glass – anywhere but her – he heaved a deep sigh. "And besides." He let his blond hair fall over his eyes, obscuring them from view. "I promised myself when I decided to build an empire – I promised myself that I wouldn't cry."

India gave a small, melancholic smile. "That's a bad promise to make to yourself. It's very difficult to keep, isn't it? I know—I made the same pact a long time ago—but it's getting harder and harder to keep. I suppose part of that is your fault, isn't it?" She let a tiny laugh slip through her lips.

"But some promises can't be kept, no matter how hard you try. And sometimes, it's better to break them, especially if keeping that pledge hurts you. A lot of the time, crying can be a kind of... stress-release, if you will? A lot of people feel better after they cry—better than they would have if they hadn't."

She looked at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. She continued without eye-contact. "And crying isn't unmanly at all. In fact, one might say that one is manlier if they aren't afraid to show their emotions. More so if they aren't too embarrassed to cry in front of someone else."

She took a deep breath. "But, why am I telling you this? It's a waste of breath—you obviously aren't going to listen." She wondered if she might be wrong.

"I _do_ listen, thank you very much. I'm not deaf," he said stiffly. "You hardly give me enough credit." For what, he wasn't going to bother to elaborate. He snuck a look at India, only to see that she was avoiding his eyes as well, so he quickly tore his eyes away and back to the window. "And… I thought that was why you didn't cry. You never did, not even when I killed your artillery or stole from you or did whatever I could in my power to break you, you just kept on being stubborn and wouldn't let yourself cry. It was…" He hesitated. "Impressive." Stopping dead, he hastily added, "But annoying!" and grumpily turned to face her. "Look, that's not the point. My point is that, however much you may want to see me cry like a little girl, you'll never see it! HA!"

Smirking triumphantly, he plunked down in his chair with the true grace of a gentleman. Yes, Britannia was back in business. And she (he?) was going to turn India into the richest colony ever to lie on the face of the earth. "You are dismissed for today. Tomorrow, I will be heading back to London; I expect you to accompany me."

India closed her eyes, giving a tiny sigh. "We're alike, aren't we..." she said quietly. She refused to show emotion—so did he. He tried to stay strong, even through hard times—so did she. What they really were was a couple of stubborn idiots that refused to change. She laughed inwardly at the thought.

"Alright then," she stood up and looked at him, finally managing to catch his eyes. "Tomorrow, then."


	3. Third Meeting

Well, that had been bloody awkward. Queen Victoria was one of his favourite bosses; so he couldn't help but feel like a proud nanny when she looked India up and down with an air of approval. Then she proceeded to be crowned Empress of India; he could practically feel the scandalized aura of the woman beside him, but had kicked her in the shin to keep her from saying anything. God, if she had, he would have melted into a puddle of liquid nitrogen and dissolved the Royal Rug.

Now the two nations were standing in the archway, the crowd of people slowly dissipating. "Thank you for not saying anything," he said stiffly, tugging at the starched collar he was wearing. "Believe me, it would not have stopped them at all. Perhaps you're not happy, but it's for the best." He rolled his eyes and headed down the corridor. "This way." He knew this place like the back of his hand; it was wonderful to be home in lovably gross, rainy London.

India followed him, glancing around every so often. How in the hell did he like this place? It was wet. Very, very wet. And rainy, which kind of went along with wet. She'd never seen so much… _wet_. Compared to the dry, hot climate she was used to, she felt as if she were drowning, and she wasn't even underwater.

Turning back to just simply stare at the exotic girl – he couldn't believe she was really _here_, and yes he was aware that he sounded like a lovesick schoolboy which he was _not_ - he couldn't help but point out particular points of interest in the hallways and prattle about their history. Particularly paintings of wars.

"And this – this is the war of 1812!" England was saying proudly, gesturing to a picture in which the White House was on fire. "One of our colonies, I can't remember his name – he burnt down the White House! Serves that little brat righ- Are you quite alright?" England finished in concern. India looked very... uncomfortable. She kept gasping for air, and sending quizzical looks out the window to where there was a lovely little rain shower going on.

"I'm sorry," she coughed, shaking her head; it felt as though her thick black hair were weighed down by millions of water droplets. "I'm not used to the rain, to be honest. The sudden environmental change is just..." She coughed again, proving her point though she hadn't really been trying to. "I'm fine," she lied badly, trying to act as if she were interested in the many pictures on the walls. She hoped she sounded convincing—she knew better.

England's large eyebrows knitted together in concern. If she was fine, he was Turkey – and he'd have you know, he was nor a Thanksgiving delicacy bird _or_ that idiot in the mask. Hesitantly putting his hand to her forehead – why had she kept the bindi on? – he murmured worriedly, "Well, you do feel rather warm. Perhaps you should lie down." As soon as he heard his own sickening voice, he almost bolted – it was the kindly older brother voice he had usually reserved for _him_. And India was certainly not his replacement.

As soon as his hand touched her forehead, she blushed—foolishly. What kind of idiot was she turning into? She shook her head. "I'm fine," she insisted, but another cough contradicted her statement. _Crap_.

"You liar," he said sternly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down another hallway. "You need to lie down, and don't convince me otherwise, alright?" Heading down another hallway and reaching his quarters, he sighed, fluttering by the door like an irritable butterfly with India still in tow.

"I'll let you stay here, for now, since you're sick," he muttered, flushing as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. Realizing that he should probably make his intentions perfectly clear – India was really untrusting – he quickly elaborated, "B-Because! You need to be kept in perfect shape! You realize how much the declining health of a nation can affect trade and the GDP? I cannot deal with that right now, what with that bastard's Boxer Rebellions. You just focus on getting better, alright, duck?"

He froze. _Duck_. Duck, fuck! He was talking like the bloody old ladies in Liverpool again! India must think he was barking.

India wasn't about to show any sign of weakness—maybe he'd believe she was alright if she teased him a litt—okay, a lot. "Where in the _hell_ do you get your slang?" she inquired, resisting the urge to burst into laughter. Duck? Last time she checked, a duck was a bird that enjoyed the water. The irony struck her and she giggled—if she liked the water, she would not have been being pressured to lie down by this—she decided to use another bird analogy—mother hen. And why, though she didn't dare ask, was he blushing like a schoolboy? Though to be honest, she wasn't complaining.

"Actually," he said stiffly, "Our slang has _quite_ a vibrant history! London in particular! I guess you wouldn't have heard of cockney rhyming slang, but it has very unique origins." He didn't add that most of his slang was just euphemisms for particular parts of the anatomy. Roughly gesturing towards the bed, he said sharply, "Now, lie down. I am not having you getting sick! Not now, when health is crucial," he muttered the last part; something told him India might off herself if it gave her the chance to see England fail at something. Sighing, he rifled through the kitchen cupboards, finding nothing but several things of canned... canned peaches? Staring blankly at them for a few seconds, he sighed and turned back to India.

"Speaking so sharply isn't the best way to get someone to do what you want," India advised, twisting a strand of black hair around her darkly-colored fingers. "Especially a _lady_, as you say. "Besides, I really don't need to lie down," she insisted, attempting to use logic to get out of it. "I'm not used to this... _damp_ environment. Even if I did rest, I'd be back to the way I am right now as soon as I went outside. It's something I'll have to adapt to, and sitting inside or sleeping isn't going to help with that. Exposure treatment, y'know?"

The empire sighed, running a hand through his already messy blond hair. "Fine, fine, I get it! I'm a worrywart, blah blah blah." Carefully drawing the curtains – was it just his imagination, or was the rain slowing up? No, it was definitely raining harder; brilliant – he turned around, fixing her with a stare.

"I must say, India," he flinched a little; it still bothered him to use her real name, and it left him speechless for several long moments. _Tick, tick, tick_. That damned clock. He should have gotten rid of it. Finally, he opened his mouth again. "... You're adapting quite well, is all," he muttered, fiddling with the curtain string in his hand.

"I want to be honest with you; you're practically the... jewel in the crown of the British Empire. This is why I'm so worried." England tried to look at her again, but only ended up diverting his gaze to the string in his hand. "France. He's still after you. I'm afraid we might be going into war."

India couldn't help but blush slightly at his comment—was that a compliment? She was only glad that because of her coffee-colored skin, her flushed cheeks wouldn't be too noticeable; he wasn't looking at her anyway.

_France is still after you. I'm afraid we might be going to war_. This idea, for some reason, frightened her. "It's best if we avoid that," she muttered quietly. "That... _soover_ is someone I'd rather not be bothered by. I don't know how anyone stands the fag. I'd much rather stay here with you." Upon hearing her own words, she choked, then tried to pass it off as a cough.

If he hadn't noticed her blush _then_, he sure as hell would now. She only hoped that he didn't turn to look. _Damn my tongue_! she mentally cursed herself, biting down on the accursed thing until she thought it may bleed. _Dammit dammit dammit_!

He let out a tiny noise of surprise - _I'd much rather stay here with you_. The room's temperature seemed to go up a million degrees and - _Oh God, how long had he waited to hear that_? The first word off his tongue was hesitant and quiet.

"Forever?"

A thin smile followed his words, not quite reaching his eyes.

"Will you stay forever, India? Or will you leave, like everybody else did?" He looked up at her through his pale eyelashes, looking almost angelic. "They all said that to my face, too. They said they'd stay with me. But now look. One colony is gone, another is on the way. How can you prove you're not different, India?" Slowly, his pale fingers curled around the front of her clothes, and his green eyes seemed to darken. "Is it because you're special?"

A small sound of complete and utter shock escaped her dark lips; she took a step backward, but his fair fingers held the fabric of her clothing. She had, she thought to herself quickly, only been saying that she'd rather stay with him than be claimed by that long-haired pig with the stubbly beard... Hadn't she?

She didn't know for sure. She'd learned, a bit, how to get along with England. But she wasn't quite sure how to react in this particular situation. His pale face was only two inches or so from her own—despite this, she didn't meet his jaded eyes—instead, she focused on his thick eyebrows, trying to compose herself and arrange her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order.

It didn't work too well, and words failed her completely—she couldn't have said anything if she'd wanted to. She wasn't even sure if she _did_ want to. So she just stood there, her ebony eyes wide and the now-obvious flush not disappearing from her cheeks—she had a feeling that it didn't plan on receding anytime soon. _Damn._

This was probably the worst time to be thinking this, England thought distractedly, but she really was beautiful. Even when she was looking shocked and rather frightened, like a timid rabbit. And he was slowly becoming aware of what must be done to avoid a war; he would have to stake his claim over the country, so that France really couldn't lay a hand on either the land nor the woman who personified it.

The part of him that was absolutely sane right now screamed at him to stop _thinking_ this way, but his carnal desires were fiercely getting in the way of good judgment. The longer he thought frantically about really, what he had wanted to do from the beginning, the quicker his breathing sped up, until he really couldn't deny what he wanted.

What he had always wanted. Since the moment he set foot on the shores of the beaches, observed the fierce sun so different from the rainy weather outside.

Fuck. He was not going to last long like this, not long _at all_. Damn this girl! Why did she... do this to him... he thought dazedly before crashing his lips onto hers abruptly and yanking her closer for better access.

"Mf?" She hadn't been trying to say anything, but India couldn't help the muffled little noise that slipped from her now-occupied lips. What the hell had brought this on? Her eyes were open—hell, they were wide as saucers. Hello, England? There's this little thing in most places called _romance_. You should try it sometime. But she knew that, at the moment, that wasn't what was on his mind.

There was an urgency in the way he kissed her—pure lust, she realized. She thought that—by all means—she should be happy. She knew that, even though it sounded insane, even to her, she had _wanted_ him to do this for so long now. But not like this. Anger built inside her and took the form of tears threatening to spill from her ebony eyes. Even as his lips moved, hers remained frozen, unresponsive.

Lust. Not love. She'd been foolish to hope for what she knew he was incapable of.

He pulled back quickly, just enough time to breathe, "You think doing nothing's going to stop me?" before quickly kissing her breathlessly again. She was going to resist all the way, he realized dimly, but he was stronger.

Even though he was slight with a small build as a person, he had the might of the British Army behind him; strength as a nation was determined by military size. Alfred was a prime example – but he shouldn't be thinking about him now, he thought hurriedly.

India was still as unresponsive as ever, England thought grimly, but he had firm belief in his sexual prowess; it's not like he was _proud_ of it, but England held highly desirable land and had held up several alliances over his existence. Besides, nobody could withhold impassiveness very far, not even this girl. The empire quietly licked her bottom lip before plunging in and feeling the roof of her mouth; he would get her to make a noise, dammit, if he had to play dirty to get it.

She remained unresponsive until she saw her opportunity; it came soon enough—as soon as his tongue caught hers, she bit down hard; she hoped it'd hurt like hell. With a strength that came more from rage more than physical might, she thrust him backward, knocking him into a small table. Tears were flowing freely from her dark eyes, and there was nothing she could do about that. But she was damned if he was going to use her like some sort of plaything. _Muth mar_, she snarled, trying not to let her shoulders shake with the sobs threatening to burst forth.

_Fuck, that hurt like hell_. England groaned to himself, getting up and feeling now extremely unsatisfied _and_ literally hurting. Where the hell did she get her strength from? She must have a core of iron to be able to still throw off an Empire when her country was virtually trampled. He shuddered to think about how many rebellions within India had fueled that.

Slowly straightening up, and fixing her with his still dark, almost black green eyes, he narrowed them mockingly. "Are you really that desperate to keep me off you, India? You're getting quite childish about this, and I almost wonder if you're crying over me." He gave a short laugh, before lowering his eyelids halfway. "Most territories would have given in by now, and quite frankly, it would be good for you. For me, too, but it benefits both nations." Carefully sticking his tongue out a little to lick the corner of his mouth - _oh, god, a little bit of her still lingered there_ - "And haven't I ever told you not to use that disgusting language of yours in front of me? You were getting so good at English, too."

India fixed him with her own stare—but failed miserably in giving him anything but a pained, pitiful look, which she despised herself for. She could taste a little of his blood in her mouth from where she'd bitten him. She clenched her jaw, then opened it to hurl an insult at him—then she heard him say something that froze her entire body, rendering her incapable of any action or speech whatsoever.

_I almost wonder if you're crying over me_. After that, she heard nothing else, though he continued to speak. Why? Because, as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. She _was_ crying over him. Crying over the fact that he could still treat her like nothing more than a toy, use her at his will, and she could only take it. Why did it have to be him? She was crying over that, too.

She refused to tell herself the truth, but she knew why he stirred so much emotion within her. More tears spilled down her cheeks. Why? Because as much as she hated him, despised him, resented his entire existence... She loved him. And he hated her. Didn't that give her a reason to cry? Yes. But she still didn't like showing weakness or emotion.

He was about to go on – he was still furious, unbelievably furious at being rejected for the second time in thirteen days – but at the look on her face, he fell silent, suddenly feeling quite awkward. She was still crying, and yet he couldn't do anything about it – he couldn't just tell her to suck it up, for her to stop, because as the enemy, he couldn't do anything to slow every wicked tear that traced their way down her sun-darkened skin. Silently, he turned his back on her, repressing a sigh. "I understand."

Still facing the wall, he continued talking. "You don't like me, and I understand that. No colony does. But as a nation, I like _you_, and there's simply nothing you can do about it." Closing his eyes, and trying to look indifferent, he said quietly, "If you want, there's a ship going to Calcutta tomorrow."

India was silent. _You don't like me_. How much truth could four little words hold? She _didn't_ like him. Not in the least. He'd abused her mentally, verbally, physically—she still had a bruise, though unseen on her darkened skin—from where he'd struck her days before.

She didn't like the way he used her. How he could expect to do what he pleased with her—if it weren't for her rebelliousness, he would've succeeded in that. She didn't like his tendency to act superior to her—though he was, he didn't have to treat her like dirt to prove it.

She didn't like his disrespect for her religious beliefs, her language, and her culture. That was why she was confused—she _didn't_ like him, and yet... What he said next was what helped her to figure it out, and she repressed a dark laugh at the twisted idea—_As a nation, I like_ you. That was it. As a nation, he liked her plenty. He liked the fact that she was valuable, useful, and easy—or so he'd thought—to control. As a nation, she was all he could hope for. As a nation, he liked her. But that was all.

As a nation, she completely and utterly despised him. The nation that had stripped her of all freedom, all dignity, made her feel worthless, like a tool that was to be used, yet had no other purpose. As a nation, she hated him more than she hated anything.

But as a person... That child that tended to throw tantrums if he didn't get what he wanted; the little blonde boy that was, at times, so alone and helpless. He had emotions, but he refused to show them to anyone, even himself. The boy with the strength of a lion, but the mental and emotional stability of an abandoned puppy.

The boy that had only shown his softer side to her—that she knew of—who had rested his head in her lap and allowed her to comfort him, even though it bothered him. As a nation, she absolutely hated him. As a person, she was in love with him. And as a person, he hated her. That was why she cried.

He didn't have to be able to read the atmosphere to see the hate in India's eyes right now; the utter loathing and the heartbreak. _You used me. You think I'm easy to control, to use, but you're wrong_. Yes, he was wrong; he had been horribly wrong. Why couldn't she bend to his will as willingly as South Africa, or America's brother? They were easy, and complacent, but they didn't arouse feelings in England like she had for him. Desperate desire, furious anger, and another emotion that he was sure if he ignored enough, it would go away.

England had been in love before; contrary to what France was always saying, about how he was a coldhearted man who hadn't been enlightened by his _l'amour_ blah blah blah, he had been in love. He recognized the symptoms, and yet he would not acknowledge them. And if he did, certainly not to the Oriental nation in front of him. Gritting his teeth, all he could think to say was, "Our relationship really does go up and down the spectrum, doesn't it?"

India was completely unsure how he could call it a "relationship." She was also unsure whether he'd meant the question as a rhetorical one, or whether he was expecting her to give some sort of answer. The statement's meaning was clear enough without him adding the "doesn't it," to the end. Not really sure what else to do, she bobbed her head in a tiny nod, remaining silent and not meeting his eyes.

He gave a short laugh, feeling obligated because of that _stupid feeling he was going to ignore and then it would go away_ to be nice to her. Sadly, he was not very good at being nice. He could flirt, he could somehow disguise kindness through a rough exterior, but being outwardly pleasant? God, it was so... so damned _embarrassing_.

Breathing in and out a few times, he finally managed to speak. "But enough about that, India. How do you feel about me?"

Take that.

India lifted her ebony gaze to meet his jaded stare. She gave a short, humorless little laugh. "When you're not being a bastard, you mean? England..." her eyes softened a little bit, but showed only sadness. "You've made it perfectly clear... over the past few days..." she paused to take a deep breath. "That my feelings, no matter what they are, mean absolutely nothing to you."

This time, it took absolutely no time to react; he grabbed her arm angrily and hissed, "For Pete's sake, don't _say_ that! You're always making me out to be the bad one; I'm not out to hurt you on purpose," he gritted out, glaring. "Your _feelings_ - I'm not supposed to care about them, as a nation, but I do anyway because I'm a person. So stop this self-pity bullshit and tell me."

Slightly confused, she stared at him warily for several moments. Up until now, she'd thought that he had no reason to bother himself with caring what she felt. Maybe he was lying—but that didn't seem like him; even though he was a total asshole, he didn't usually lie. Now he was asking about... How _she_ felt about _him_. She didn't even know—okay, she did, but she wasn't about to just come forth and say _I love you!_ like in some scary Japanese comic book—she'd read one of those once—it was horrible. And she was smart enough—though he may argue otherwise—to know that that wasn't how life went. "I can't tell you what I don't know," she said quietly, then looked down to where he was still fiercely gripping her arm, a contrast of pale skin against her own sun-darkened flesh. "Oh, and that hurts."

He gave a humorless snort. "Fine, if you're going to be that way," he grumbled, feeling a tiny pang of disappointment. Sometimes, he had gotten a mild suspicion... well, it didn't matter now. Straightening up, and clearing his throat, he quickly reverted back to his usual stern-parent state. "Well, now what do you suggest be done?" his eyes hardened. "You've had several rebellions already; this can't go on."

_Damn it_. She mentally cursed herself again—why couldn't she have just said it and left it out in the open? She knew that he would think she was crazy—hell, she thought so herself—but maybe it wouldn't have ended _too_ badly... She let out an enormous sigh—sometimes she hated herself for being so damned stubborn and idiotic.

Or maybe she was shy...? No. She'd never been shy about anything in her life—but maybe that was the effect that _this_ idiot, so much like herself, had on her. _Damn it_. She could feel tears collecting in her eyes again—not in anger directed at him, but herself.

She started crying again, and England twitched out of an odd combination of irritation and sympathy. "I thought you promised yourself never to cry?" he asked in an almost mocking tone, finally releasing her. "Is this really all it takes for you to break down?" He was acting like a rude bastard, and he knew it; part of him just wanted to see her suffer a bit more, just to get revenge for triggering the turmoil that was still raging inside him as they spoke. "Honestly, India, you're making this far too easy."

She couldn't help but flinch at his harsh words. Why did he just keep going? Did he find it so fun to hurt her the way he was? "I promised myself I wouldn't cry, yes." She said quietly. "But I told you before, sometimes it can't be helped. I'm trying not to, to be honest. You're making it difficult, however." It was true—the way he kept speaking to her, she was surprised that she wasn't bawling like a small child.

He couldn't help but let a leer grace his features. He _was_ losing it, he knew it. "Am I making it difficult? Well then, why are you holding back? As I dimly remember you telling me in the past, you should just cry." Yes. So that he could break her, so that he could see her weak, helpless, and defenseless because what else could he take out of the girl that he hadn't taken already? He might as well use her to his whims, since that's what she seemed to think he was doing and since she wasn't going to last long anyway. Part of him screamed for him to stop; but he didn't trust that part of himself anymore.

"I want to..." She whispered, casting a glance at him only to find that he wasn't watching her. "You have no idea... How much I want to... But I won't..." Even as she said this, she could feel the hot tears slipping down her honey-brown cheeks in a torrent that she couldn't stop. It wouldn't have been so bad if she were alone, where no one had to see her in this state. She didn't want anyone to see. It was a sign of weakness. No one must see her cry. _Especially not him_. Her legs were losing their struggle to hold her up, so she slowly sank to her knees and sat on the rug, her head bowed so that he couldn't see her face as she gave into the overpowering urge to succumb to her own emotions. She cried.

She kept her gaze riveted to the floor so that he couldn't see her tears. But she knew he could see her shoulders heaving with wracking, shuddering sobs as she let what had built up within her for so long pour out in the form of the hot tears that burned her cheeks and left tiny spots on the hardwood floor beneath her. She knew that he could hear her anguished, heartbroken—and heart_breaking_—cries, though she tried her hardest to keep them as quiet as possible. The pitiful sniffling didn't help much, so she tried to keep it at a minimum. Her hands, resting on her sun-darkened knees, were trembling, as was her entire body. Dammit, how she hated to be seen like this. England was probably grinning like a madman just watching her suffer.

He smiled slowly, watching as she cried, and suddenly let it fall off his face, sickened with himself. What was wrong with him, making a harmless girl cry? He felt the back of his neck prickle with shame, as he slowly got on his knees, so he was at the same level as the sobbing girl. He sound of her crying sickened him; it wasn't a child's wail. He could feel all the emotion, the pain behind it, and the fact that he had caused it made him quite possibly want to vomit. "I-India." She didn't reply; obviously, she hated him even more now or was too busy crying.

Fuck this. He didn't know how to cheer crying women up; particularly ones that weren't simply throwing a tantrum but truly emotionally damaged. He gave a tiny noise of distress, which he tried to stifle, and quickly wrapped his arms around her on impulse.

Abruptly, India's choking sobs were cut off—maybe the shock of _this man_ putting his arms around her was just enough to make her shut up altogether. Granted, tears were still pouring down her cheeks, and her body was still trembling, but she was just... Incapable of making any sort of sound whatsoever.

But now, she had no idea what to do. She didn't, under any circumstance, want to just lean into him and cry and let him comfort her—okay, that was a lie. That's exactly what she wanted to do. But her pride wouldn't let her, even though she'd been stripped of her dignity. Besides, she doubted that if she acted on that, he would actually comfort her. He'd probably push her away.

She sat still—or as still as her trembling body could get at that moment, her tears falling at a steady rate, a few of them landing on his pale hand. She tried to calm herself down—she knew that she must look horribly childish and stupid. The pitiful sniveling that was involved in the very attempt to stop crying only made her more aware of that fact.

Oh, crap. What did he do next? His breath hitched. It had been so long since he had been able to hold a colony without them pushing him away or trembling in fear. Hesitantly, he started patting her shoulder, and groaned inwardly. He _sucked_ at cheering people up, so he usually didn't attempt it. He was content to just stand back and laugh; but this was his fault, so he was going to fix it like a true gentlemen.

Only... he didn't really feel like one right now. His hand moved absentmindedly to her hair as he kept thinking, distracted. He should probably say something – but what? "I'm sorry, I was wrong?" No, he hated admitting he was wrong. He wasn't wrong. He was the British Empire!-

"I'm sorry, I was wrong." It came out as an unintelligible mumble.

Now he was muttering to himself like some sort of schizophrenic maniac. It didn't bother India nearly as much as it should've. She didn't bother asking what he'd said; she was still trying to fight the irresistible urge to lay her head on his shoulder like a little girl. It was just that tempting. However, she was afraid of being pushed away if she did so.

His hand was on her hair now, and she couldn't help but blush a little bit. Why was he doing this? She wasn't complaining. Somehow, she felt... Safe? How strange. She still wanted to either burrow her face against his chest or lay her weary head on his shoulder, but she resisted doing either.

His hands tangled up into her hair, he felt an odd flip through his stomach. It had been happening more and more since he nosed his way into this girl's life, and it was getting incredibly annoying. He was also resisting more and more the urge to _kiss_ her – not in the lust-ridden way he had before, in a horribly grandfather-like way, like how he used to do to America before he decided to be an arse.

Yes, the urge was not disappearing. The longer he sat there, the more it intensified, like a monster dying to claw its way out of his gut. Only put much more poetically than that. Screwing up his unnaturally large eyebrows in frustration, his hands dreamily untangled themselves from India's ebony-black strands and tilted her head up, virtually of their own accord, as he hesitantly brushed his lips against hers.

India's tear-filled eyes widened as his lips brushed her own, and she blinked once or twice in shock. This time, there was no lust or obvious urgency like before—what the hell? This guy, she thought, was almost certainly bi-polar. She wasn't complaining, but she wondered why he was suddenly—oh hell. He was kissing her, and she was sitting there like an idiot contemplating it.

However, she wasn't really sure what she should do. Was he just trying to get her to shut up and stop crying? Was he trying to pacify her? That was, considering who she was thinking about, quite likely. But she didn't really care too much. What she noticed was that he was being extremely cautious and hesitant, as if he half-expected her to slap him. She didn't blame him, exactly.

The problem she was facing was that she was too stunned to move. She'd been shocked enough that her tears had ceased, though a few lingered on her honey-brown cheeks. She couldn't think, breathe, speak, or move. Her body had deserted her.

England quickly pulled back, looking horrified and searching India's face for any verbal cues. There weren't any. Way to help _him_ out! He thought grumpily. And now his limbs and facial muscles were failing him as well, which meant that he was immobile _and_ had a gobsmacked, slack-jawed look on his face. He hastily removed his hands, realizing that they still had the dark-skinned nation's chin in a death grip, and felt his accursed schoolboy blush making its presence prominent on his fair cheekbones. For a minute, he happily contemplated slapping himself to somehow find blame for the flush; not to mention punish himself for his capriciousness; but that would've looked stupid and he didn't want to wreck himself in India's eyes any more than he already had.

Well, this was a prime opportunity to own up to his assholery. He should probably say something –

"Ah – erm – that was – "

Well done, Arthur. It seems that Shakespeare's influence has worn off on _you_, he thought sardonically to himself.

His reaction was a thousand times worse that hers. He quickly let go of her, looking as if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. He appeared to be mentally cursing himself. _Really, it couldn't have been so horrible..._ she thought almost self-consciously. Maybe—_hopefully_—he was just embarrassed. She decided to take the biggest risk of her life.

They were both sitting, so he was, naturally, a little taller than she was. She rested a sun-darkened hand on his shoulder and stretched up just enough to press her honey-brown lips to his much paler ones. This time, she had her eyes closed, though he was fairly certain he didn't.

She could only hope he didn't shove her away.

He had been mentally hitting himself, when he felt warm, sun-kissed lips on his again – for a minute, he had thought he was dreaming; a very nice dream indeed, at that. It would explain why at the exotic country's touch, he flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around her neck and tilting his head to the side as to get better access to her beautiful mouth. Why did this feel so right? he wondered dimly, curling his fingers. It frightened him; was he this desperate? Had he really been lying to himself, trying to convince himself that he didn't care about what she thought of him?

_Yes_, he thought to himself resolutely. _I've been in denial._

That irritated him. But only a little. For the first time in years, in that small room in the heart of rainy London, he felt truly happy.

India couldn't help but be amused at the way he suddenly... _clung_ to her. She thought it was funny that he could suddenly be so... Happy. Happy wasn't usually a word used to describe this man, but at the moment, it fit well enough. What she found hilarious was the fact that five seconds ago, he was acting like such a... She didn't even know—an embarrassed schoolboy? Yes.

She considered briefly how wrong this was turning out—why in the world was she kissing him again? Because he had abused her? Because he had mentally and emotionally tormented her? No. She'd heard somewhere that if you loved someone enough, you would always forgive them for their mistakes. She'd thought the phrase stupid at the time—but now it was proving itself.

India couldn't help but smile against his fair lips. She played with a piece of his blonde hair absentmindedly while kissing him as he was her. This was so freaking screwed up. But she was enjoying every second of it.

It was with great regret that England pulled back before he could let himself get carried away; for several long minutes, he just stared at her and took in her flushed face. When he finally regained control of his vocal cords, he found himself sputtering.

"What the _hell_ was – was – that! We were, like, talking – and then – suddenly – " Before he could stop himself, he let his head fall forward so that it was resting on India's shoulder. As soon as he did, he had the powerful feeling that everything would be fine, but it didn't stop him from lamenting. "I'm a terrible sovereign country, terrible and unprofessional and Queen Victoria is going to _kick my ass_ for _making out_ with a colony," he murmured miserably. There was silence, except for the ticking of the clock for a few more minutes, until England looked up again with a maniacal look of urgency on his face. "Unless you don't breathe a word of this to _anybody_."

India suddenly felt a small twinge of uneasiness; the way he was acting—aside from the fact that he had his head lying on her shoulder—made it seem like he was... She didn't know how to describe it—disappointed? Self-consciously, she thought that she might've done something wrong and that he hadn't liked the kiss in the way she had.

He certainly sounded like he regretted it. She couldn't help but feel like—in a way—she'd been rejected. _Unless you don't breathe a word of this to anybody_. "Of course not," she murmured quietly, then mentally kicked herself for being unable to keep the wounded note out of her voice. _Dammit_.

"Good," he mumbled, letting his head fall back onto her shoulder; he had found a perfect place next to her neck that felt rather comfortable, and he wanted to take advantage of her current placidity before she threw him off or did something violent.

"_Of course not."_

She had sounded so... disappointed. He felt his stomach flip again – partially from confusion, but partly from a kind of glee. Serves her right! Did she think he would be bad or something? He snorted. His first time was with _France_ - while he was an annoying git, he taught well. He wondered if he should inform India of this – maybe it would not only help her understand their complicated relationship that she was getting pulled into, but it might elicit jealously. Hiding a grin against the skin of her neck, he whispered, "Well, we still have a problem." He tightened his grip around her waist. "War."

He didn't need to remind her of this—she knew well enough that that long-haired pig was going to attempt to make some sort of claim to her. It was something she wanted to avoid as long as possible. England had his head on her shoulder again, and she could feel his warm breath against her neck—it wasn't unpleasant. But she would prefer to not emotionally scar herself any longer.

She was pretty sure he regretted kissing her that way: so gently and almost—she took a risk at permanently damaging her mind—_lovingly_. It was a mistake. A fluke. It seemed that their entire relationship was turning out that way—if one could even call it a relationship.

She made an attempt at moving, but the action was difficult with him still practically in her lap. "May I help you?" she asked stiffly. Maybe if she tore herself away from him quick enough, the emotional damage would be minimal. She highly doubted that, but what other option was there?

As soon as India uttered that, it came to his attention that he was still practically in her _lap_ like some kind of _girl_. Quickly moving back a couple inches so that they were still close, but at least had personal bubbles intact, he stared at her seriously, green eyes gleaming a little in the quickly-darkening room. When had it gotten this late? "What do you mean by 'help'?"

Confused, all she could do was stare at him blankly. That _was_ what she had meant by "help." Now that he wasn't practically sitting on her, the question he was asking had no meaning. So she didn't really know what he was asking. Still sitting there on the floor, she lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug.

Sighing, he scratched at the back of his head awkwardly. "I mean – if it comes to all-out war, I feel it won't be necessary to have you out on the battlefield." He chewed on his lip again, which was a habit he was sure he had broken until he had met India. "There is... one... preventative measure we can take, but it's ridiculous and it's clear that you're not going to let me inflict that on you." He rolled onto his back, so he was staring up at the whitewashed ceiling. "I'm not going to let him take you, India. You don't have to worry."

The way he said it, she didn't want to know what his so-called "preventative measure" might be. She shrugged the thought away. Something—and she cursed herself for even thinking about it—was bothering her. Hesitantly, she looked up at him—maybe this, though she didn't necessarily want to bring it up, would divert them from the subject of France and the war.

"England?" She asked hesitantly, hating the way she sounded cute and innocent, even when she wasn't trying to. Damn, she needed to stop that. She was sure that she would regret bringing this up at all, but it had been eating at her for a long time. Was she really that vain? "Do you really think I'm a slut...?

He blinked in confusion for a minute, but quickly understood. "No," he muttered. "No, you're not," before sitting up straight and grabbing her face in his hands. "Why would you even _think_ that?" he demanded, biting his lip more. He really needed to stop that. "I take it you know what you'd have to do – but just because you want to save yourself from a creepy wine freak does _not_ make you a slut," he said, his thumb absentmindedly tracing her jawline before hastily dropping his hands. What was _wrong_ with him...? "And anyway, I'm not forcing you. If you're not going to, we can discuss army reinforcements."

"That isn't what I meant," she said quietly, keeping her ebony eyes on the floor. "I mean... A couple of days ago..." She inhaled deeply, then let the air leave her lungs in a gusty sigh. "You know what, never mind..." She narrowed her eyes at the hardwood in frustration. At least now she understood what his "preventative measures" were. But he'd missed the point completely.

He made a growling noise of frustration. "Are you trying to make me sound stupid or something? A couple days ago, honestly, rather vague..." Freezing, it suddenly came back to him. Vividly. _"Stop that! You look like a – a _tart!"

Yanking on a few locks of fair hair, he eyed her irritably. "If you mean last week; for God's sake, you were damned messing with me! It pissed me off!" _Pissed me off_ wasn't quite as honest as he'd like; _highly aroused me_ was much more accurate, but he'd die before he'd admit that.

"I know, but..." The Oriental nation let out another sigh. He was so damned stubborn—getting a straight answer from him was like pulling teeth. Not only that, she couldn't help but flinch when he started yelling. Why, in the hell, did she get so easily wounded by this idiot? She wondered if she _looked_ as hurt as she felt. "Just... Forget it..."

"You can't tell me that after going through this whole... hissy fit!" he protested weakly. "Look, I know I've been... less-than-lenient with you." That was an understatement. He had _beaten_ her. "And you have no reason to trust me – and yet, I don't think we'll get anywhere unless you do." He put his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting, friendly manner. He wasn't just doing it to touch her, and remind himself what she felt like! Preposterous!

India couldn't help but let out a humorless little laugh. "I trust you, though it goes against my better judgment." That was an understatement, and she knew it. She more than trusted him. She was willing enough to let herself keep getting hurt over and over just to stay close to him. Even when he was the one causing her pain. The thought disgusted her.

But even though her mind screamed warnings at her to cut all emotional ties with the island nation, she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to do it, no matter how much she wanted to. Those kisses—they had been enough to give her hope. False hope. Hope that was shattered now—he didn't love her, she knew. But that didn't stop her from wanting to be near him—even if it caused her pain.

What kind of masochistic psychopath was she turning into? He was _unhealthy_. She didn't need to be around someone who caused her emotional damage and suffering. But she wanted to. She wished she could kiss him again. But she also knew that if she did, she'd only hurt herself more. She'd dig the knife deeper into her own heart. So she held back, keeping her gave riveted to the floor, not speaking, not hearing. Only breathing. Only thinking. Only hurting.

"Stop that," he said quietly, without even realizing it. She was getting that pained look on her face again, the one that was showing up more and more often as this conversation went on – the face she wore with her heart on her sleeve. That basically screamed heartbreak and fury at herself. She was facing inner turmoil, and if England guessed correctly, he had triggered it.

"Stop making that... face... do you realize how much it kills me?" Did he really just say that? "You know... you could always tell me if something's wrong, alright? You're my colony, it's my duty to take care of you, like a parent would." His voice broke.

…_Like a parent would…_ That was her problem. Right there. She didn't _want_ him to be a _parent_ to her. It killed her that she wanted so much more from him—and why? How had she fallen for this simple-minded fool? Why couldn't she ignore the feeling that made itself so unbelievably apparent in her chest?

"I don't want you…" she murmured, "to be a _parent_ to me…" She'd gotten that part out without much difficulty. But now she didn't know what else to say. Maybe she should've waited to speak until she'd figured her whole inner-struggle out. But her mouth always had been a step ahead of her mind. What _did_ she want him to be? Why? She didn't know, and thinking about it only made her head hurt. She had to say something else, or he'd think that she was saying she just wanted him to leave her the hell alone—when in fact, that was _not_ what she wanted at all. "Is a colony all you'll ever see me as?" she whispered almost inaudibly. Damn—tears were pricking her eyes again. She'd cried more in front of this man than she had in her entire life.

Dammit, dammit, _damn it_. She hated him. No, she loved him. And she hated _herself_ for it. Hated herself for loving a man that was seemingly incapable of loving anyone but himself. She was so stupid! _Stupid. Dim._ _Daft, whatever the hell that one meant. Simple. _Everything he'd said made sense. She was an idiot for letting herself fall into a trap like this.

She lowered her head slightly and continued to stare at the floor, refusing to meet his jaded gaze. Arthur Kirkland. He was a complete and total bastard. So why in the hell did she love him? Answers deserted her as she waited for a response to the half-rhetorical question she'd asked. _Is a colony all you'll ever see me as…_?

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, for probably not the last time, was almost stunned when he managed to catch a whisper out of the Oriental.

"_I don't want you... to be a _parent_ to me... Is a colony all you'll ever see me as?"_

His heartbeat picked up immediately; he could feel it echoing in his ears, ticking the time. "Wh-What do you mean?" he murmured, just to say something, to distract himself from the pulsating sound in his ears, but to no avail. He knew _exactly_ what she meant, and for the first time everything was _painfully_ clear to him; he had taken advantage of somebody who _loved_ him and it was sickening. Pupils dilating in their green irises and already-light cheeks paling, he clutched his stomach in utter horror, forgetting about the girl next to him that could surely still see him, sitting on his knees and looking like he was about to faint. Slowly looking up from the wood boards of the floor, he brought his face closer to the dark-skinned girl's until their foreheads were touching. "India," he started out, awkwardly, and _incredibly_ quiet. "I see you as much, much more than a colony. It's why I don't want you to leave me." He shut his eyes, so he couldn't see the dark, almost-black eyes staring back at him. They always had felt accusing, now they would just hurt him if he looked, like trying to stare at the sun during an eclipse.

They were taking turns at being stunned into silence. Him, then her, then him, now her. India's eyes were still full of tears, but they didn't fall. They too seemed to be frozen with the shock. _Much, much more than just a colony… Why I don't want you to leave me… _Could these things really be coming from him? It wasn't likely. But somehow or another, he was saying them.

The only thing that could distract her from his words were his actions. His forehead was pressed against hers—he felt… cold. And kind of clammy. The blonde had his eyes shut tightly and was holding his stomach. He looked as if he were going to faint—or get sick. Or burst into tears. Or all three. This alarmed the dark-skinned girl. "A-Arthur?" she stammered.

She was dimly aware that she'd just blurted out his first name. She didn't know why, but she had. What was more important was that he was scaring the hell out of her.

England blinked his eyes open on reflex, extremely conscious of how close she was. He felt his already faint blush grow at an impressionable rate until his cheeks resembled pomegranates. Nobody had called him by his actual _human_ name in centuries – unless you count France, who did it to piss him off, and Alfred a few times when he was younger. What was _her _human name, again? He knew it, he knew he did. Sarika Advani; when he'd first heard it, he had thought it silly and pagan-sounding. Now, it sounded like honey on his ears. "Sarika," he murmured, more to himself than her, testing it out, before jerking out of his reverie. "D-Do you need something?" he stammered. "What's with the human name?"

Really, she was so troublesome, making him admit embarrassing things like that and making his face resemble one of Greece's export fruits! And then she had to go and use his human name, which was not only rather taboo and usually used between siblings and (Oh _GOD_) lovers, which was extremely, extremely, extremely...

... hot, coming out of her mouth with that adorable accent.

Hearing the way he whispered her human name made her blush furiously for about three seconds. _D-Do you need something? What's with the human name? _She wasn't sure why she'd suddenly called him "Arthur." It hadn't really been something she'd thought about. But it didn't seem so important at the moment, as his face was still quite red, and he still looked as though he may pass out.

"A-are you alright?" she asked quietly, stretching out a sun-darkened hand to rest it on one of his crimson cheeks. His face was hot—she had to resist the urge to giggle at the double meaning in her own thoughts.

He shook his head rapidly, making his bangs flop. "I-I'm fine! T-totally ace," he mumbled weakly, putting his hand on top of the one that was on his cheek and entwining his white fingers with her darker brown ones. "I... I just..." he trailed off lamely, searching the room for any good excuse. _The temperature's too high! The red is your imagination! I'm not about to pass out from happiness, that's too lame and physically impossible!_

Sadly, when his brain failed to make a decision, he blurted out his last thought.

"I'm not about to pass out from happiness, that's too lame and physically impossible!" The United Kingdom babbled like an idiot, immediately flushing deeper so that he resembled a slightly under-ripe plum. "I mean- thank you for your concern, but I'm perfectly fine." He clenched his fingers tighter, closer to hers, and felt the blush slowly fading. Why was he so prone to blushing-? It must be the stupid, Caucasian skin tone thanks to the convenient northern location of his house.

Quickly taking a deep breath, he hesitantly turned back to the South Asian, trying to keep his fingernails from digging into her palm. "India, do you love me?" he murmured, praying that his instinct had been right.

She sat there on the floor in front of him, motionless. Everything was entirely silent. Was it her imagination, or had the ticking of the clock ceased as well? She tore her gaze from his to glance up at it—the thin second hand wasn't moving. Oh great—the clock had suffered a heart attack from the shock of what England had just asked.

_India, do you love me?_ The Oriental nation felt her cheeks heat up, though the flush was far less noticeable that the crimson cheeks of the man who was gripping her darker hand tightly in his own, fairer one. There were some things she could've said to him—a few of them were quite insulting. The others were just… horribly sweet and, to be honest, scary.

She decided that she wouldn't say anything; speaking might ruin the moment—what was this, a scary romance film?—and she was fairly sure that if she opened her mouth, no sound would come out anyway. She settled for bobbing her head in a small nod, then quickly reverting her gaze back to the hardwood floor.

It was so strange; a simple nod of the head could send him into ridiculous flurries of glee. Of course, it didn't quite show on his face; England was not a nation to wear his heart on his sleeve, and all anyone watching could see were light green eyes widen slightly.

Naturally, being Arthur Kirkland, the first thing he made sure to do was take the Lord's name in vain. "My—God," he stammered out, pushing their faces closer so that their noses were now touching and their lips were in close proximity. "I thought – I was sure – " he breathed, aching to put their lips together – but he was still worried that India was going to throw him off.

He wanted to say what he had been dying to for so long – those three simple words – but he was startled to find how difficult it was. Maybe it wasn't saying it; it was the things that came with the words, that if said, would be put into motion. "I—" he started, and tried again. "I lo-"

There was more silence, more terrifying silence now that the grandfather clock had died (He was thankful for it, really, it had been quite annoying) and so finally he just said it outright and bluntly.

"Sarika?" He waited for her to look up.

"I, Arthur Kirkland, as a person... I love you."

_I love you._ Three words. Three, simple words that said so much—now she was thinking like some kind of cheesy romanticist. It was quite scary. She was happy enough to tackle him—which she, for obvious reasons, was _not_ going to do. In fact, she wanted to slap herself a couple of times to make sure she wasn't—no, not dreaming, dead. It wasn't that she couldn't believe it was happening—she believed it plenty. But she was slightly worried that, like the clock, she may have had a heart attack and been too overjoyed to notice. His face was still bright red—she had to resist the urge to giggle and make a remark about how hilariously adorable it was. But she figured that now wasn't the time, considering that their lips were a fraction of an inch apart. She let her own curve into a small smile—she hadn't noticed that the tears had started again, the sneaky little things. Her sun-darkened fingers were still tightly wound with his, a twist of ivory and honey-brown. Her cheeks were flushed, and though the color wasn't as prominent on her dark skin, the tears that fell from her ebony eyes trailed small dark paths down her face. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stop the little traitors.

He carefully lifted a white finger to catch the tears falling from her eyes; he hoped they were from happiness. He was pretty sure they _were_, but why take chances? Slowly, he curled his non-occupied hand around the hair at the back of her neck and pressed their lips together quickly; he felt a little satisfied, knowing that it was their first kiss that hadn't ended in some kind of misunderstanding. Pulling back, he quickly kissed her again before she could react, deeper and slower than he had really kissed _anyone_ before, carefully brushing her hair back. God, he loved her. So much that it _hurt_, but he didn't even _mind_ the pain. Is this what love felt like? He thought giddily.

...

No, it wasn't. There was a nail from the floor poking into his leg – that's why it hurt. He quickly pulled India up, still furiously kissing her, and managed to pull apart long enough to gasp, "That floor is murderous!"


End file.
